


That War's Never Really Ended (Not Everyone Came Back)

by KeeperOfTheEternalFlame



Series: Jack Thompson Is A Work In Progress [1]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Agent Carter Spoilers, Canon Compliant, Daniel Sousa is a G, F/M, Interracial Relationship, Jack Thompson is a work in progress, Mild Smut, Nightmares, Peggy Carter is intimidating as hell and has more influence than she thinks, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-Season/Series 02 Finale, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, fear of sexual assault, like barely graphic smut, more like Lite Smut, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-17 21:34:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19963561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeeperOfTheEternalFlame/pseuds/KeeperOfTheEternalFlame
Summary: She had asked, when he first started courting her, why he was so willing to be seen in public with a Negro woman. Why he didn’t seem to walk with any less confidence or feel the need to explain himself to his colleagues or to only take her to places that were dark and shady and more secluded from prying eyes.And he had told her half the truth—that she was too special to be ashamed of.But what he hadn’t told her was that his shame quota was already full-up, every ounce of it already devoted to hating himself in his variety of quiet, hard-to-see ways.In which Jack Thompson learns he cannot be afraid of both death and life.





	That War's Never Really Ended (Not Everyone Came Back)

**Author's Note:**

> Now, I know what you’re thinking:
> 
> Ew. Him? Agent T H O M P S O N? For this?
> 
> Why?
> 
> And my answer to that is that I simply don’t know. But Episodes 104 and 105 got me thinking about Jack Thompson differently (which was the intention of the writers, if I’m not mistaken), Episode 107 furthered it, and before I knew it, it was Season 2, and I couldn’t stop rooting for Jack to choose to do the right thing.
> 
> I got 4000 words into this fic for no apparent reason last week right after watching Episode 208 (yes, I know Agent Carter’s been off the air for years―I’m a little late to the party, I get it), and then Episodes 209 and 210 happened, and there was absolutely no going back.
> 
> Why did I pair him with a Black woman? Would he actually know how to not be a racist, misogynistic jackass (because Black women deserve to not date racist misogynistic jackasses)? Do I get to cover all of the important things Jack Thompson would need to know in order to not be a racist, misogynistic jackass?
> 
> These are all questions I’ve asked myself and tried to answer in this fic as best I could. I hope there aren’t Black women, femmes, and folx that feel I’ve inaccurately portrayed the power dynamic or glossed over ugly truths.
> 
> But there might be.
> 
> And that’s for me to take into account for next time.
> 
> And maybe Agent Jack Thompson doesn’t deserve this odd little redemption arc I’ve dreamt up for him.
> 
> But you know what?
> 
> It’s far too late now.

* * *

_“You’re better than this.”_

It’s 1952 when he first meets her.

He’s got Peggy Carter in his ear like a parasite, and the pain of it’s got him on the brink of tears.

It’s been years since he walked from the SSR—or _S.H.I.E.L.D._ as Carter’s now re-christened it. He tried to serve with the NYPD instead for a period, thinking that maybe on the streets, gun in his hand, away from the mad and greedy scramble for power, it would be easier, better. He would be better.

It wasn’t. 

_He_ wasn’t.

And so Jack Thompson finds himself blundering through the February-frigid New York streets, eyes red with Carter’s disappointment and a too-many-fingers-of-Scotch hangover (funny how the latter never canceled out the former), to get his new suit tailored before his next job interview.

The door is heavier than it should be. Heavier than it’s ever been before. It takes everything in him to take measured, steady steps instead of stumbling over the threshold.

He makes his way to the back counter and lays the suit in its garment bag on the pink, plastic surface. A young woman looks up to meet his gaze and smiles cheerily.

“Morning, sir! What can we help you with today?” 

He sniffs and drags a hand down his face. “I, uh…I need this taken in.”

He’s lost weight. The sense of purposelessness can do that.

The woman picks up the suit by the hanger and examines it with her big blue eyes. Jack’s vision is a little unfocused, but he can’t stop staring at her. Everything about her face seems…

Disproportionate. However she’s done her makeup, in those bright blues and pinks, it makes all her features too big for her small frame. Too loud.

She looks back at him. “Not a problem, sir. We’ll get started on this right away.” She slides a tag for the garment bag to him and offers a pen that she seems to have pulled from nowhere. He fills out his name and number, and it’s times like today he has to pause to remember his phone number is not the same as the ID number on his disgraced dog tags.

Once he scrawls the reason for his visit on the last line, she slides the tag onto the hanger and offers the suit across the counter. Jack takes it, his hand accidentally brushing hers—though his face shows he doesn’t even feel it.

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

“If you’d like to go ahead and change into it over there, I’ll have an associate with you in just a moment.”

Jack nods and walks away from the counter without another glance or a second thought.

The little changing room is four white walls and a mirror.

He avoids looking at himself.

When he emerges in the ill-fitting light gray slacks and jacket, there’s a different woman waiting by the cushioned seats of the work area.

A colored woman.

He hasn’t had the energy for a mental moral filter in years, but he’s not entirely short on verbal decorum.

“You’re new,” he states flatly.

She knows what he means, so she gives him a small, tired, unconvincing smile that shows no teeth. “I am.”

He walks to the center of the space with his back to her and straightens his jacket on his shoulders. She starts pinning sections of fabric wordlessly.

Small talk had been aggravating to Jack ever since Vernon Masters had tried to teach him to work the floor, but today he is desperate to drown out Carter’s voice.

“When’d you start?”

She tugs on the jacket from the back, examining something, before she answers. “Soldier came home from overseas and took his job at the paper back. I wasn’t about to say no.” She moves around to his left side. “Would you hold your arm up, sir?”

Jack obeys but frowns at her as she works. “What do you mean a soldier came back? War’s been over for years.”

She glances up to meet his eyes as she fiddles with the cuff of his sleeve. “War ended in ’45. Doesn’t mean the fighting did. You can put your arm down now.”

He does, and she moves on to the waistline of the jacket.

“Besides,” she continues, “home was a long ways away for some. Not everyone came back. Not everyone felt like they could. Of course, I’m sure you know that, sir. You fought, too.” She examines the buttons sewn into the jacket’s right side. “How attached are you to these particular buttons? We’ve got some that are a darker gray, and I think they’ll look better with this color than these brown ones.”

She looks up again and finds that Jack is staring at her.

 _Common sense says that it was just an educated guess,_ he tells himself. Most men fought, so why wouldn’t he?

But it didn’t feel like a guess.

She _knew._

So Jack asks, “How did you know?”

“Know what, sir?”

“That I fought. How did you know I was a soldier?”

She shakes her head with another small smile, clicks her tongue quietly—like it’s a foolish question from a child that she’s choosing to indulge—and goes back to pinning. “The way you carry yourself, sir. The weight of hard choices.”

And Jack has nothing to say to that.

And apparently, she has nothing else to say on the matter, either.

She finishes her work in silence and helps him out of the jacket.

He changes out of the slacks in the dressing room, but this time, he risks a glance in the mirror.

_The weight of hard choices._

A polite way of saying he looks like shit.

He can almost laugh at that.

When he leaves the dressing room, he hands her the pants, careful of the pins in the waistband and the side seams. She gathers them carefully in her arms.

“We’ll have the alterations finished by Thursday, sir.”

She starts to turn away when Jack calls her attention back.

“You’re something else, you know that?”

She studies him for a moment, looking more alert. The blood drains from his face at her appraising gaze. His heart is beating too fast and he’s feeling a little unsteady because she’s seeing him and seeing through him at the same time.

She looks away from him to glance at both her arms before fixing her eyes on his again.

“Well, yes, sir,” she replies. “I guess I’m Black.”

And Jack cannot help but laugh at that. She still doesn’t show any teeth, but she does smile at the sound.

He knows he must be even more fatigued than he is conscious of because his mouth continues working independently of his brain. “That soldier that came back,” he starts. “Why did he…How did he get home?”

She gives him that look again, but then her eyes soften. “Well, he didn’t know where he was or where he was going. But he knew where he’d been. He went back to the place he started, I suppose,” she answers, “hoping to take a different path than what led him away the first time.”

And Jack Thompson mulls that over on the walk home.

And to his surprise, it blocks out Peggy Carter. 

And to his surprise, he’s still mulling it over once he gets home.

And then he digs around in a bunch of drawers with little hope he’ll find what he’s looking for until he actually does.

And then he does something he doesn’t think he’s actually going to do until he’s already dialed the number.

And Jack Thompson finds himself on the phone with Daniel Sousa.

* * *

When he gets the call on Thursday to tell him the suit is ready for pick-up, he drives instead of walking.

But when he gets there, she’s not.

So he asks as casually as he can, “Where’s the new girl?”

The woman behind the counter—who is also not the same woman with the very loud face from last time—cocks her head with a small frown.

“Oh, the colored girl?” she clarifies.

Jack bristles because he’d been very careful _not_ to make that her sole descriptor. His mouth and mind are more in sync today.

But he needs an answer more than he needs to maintain political correctness at this particular moment.

“Yeah, the—her.”

“She doesn’t come in until noon.”

And Jack Thompson goes to war with himself because it feels entirely too much like his SSR days for him to mill around the area until noon, just lying in wait for her to arrive, but he had woken up feeling oddly peppy at the thought of maybe seeing her again.

 _No, better not,_ he decides at last as he fishes out his wallet to pay. He had tried his luck, but he was unlucky as ever, and he doesn’t have the strength to fight fate.

“Oh no, Mr. Thompson,” the woman interjects, handing him the suit in its garment bag. “It’s on the house.”

Jack frowns. “Excuse me?”

She taps the tag with a long, manicured nail and then looks back at him. “There’s a note here that says there’s no charge.” Then she adds, “Thank you for your service.” 

Slowly, Jack reaches out and takes the hanger, the plastic covering rustling in his grip.

“Christ,” he mutters under his breath.

 _Well shit. Now he_ has _to see her again._

* * *

“But it’s not like you can go around doing free patch jobs for every vet in New York City,” Jack argues. “This place would never make a penny.”

“I know,” she says simply. “But you seemed like you really needed a break last I saw you.”

“Lotta men wouldn’t like that charity.” The unspoken, _“especially from a Black woman,”_ hangs in the air, and it makes Jack wince.

She looks at him with raised eyebrows. “I didn’t peg you to fit in with most men, Mr. Thompson. I apologize if I offended you. You’re welcome to pay the full amount if you’d prefer.”

Jack lets out an incredulous laugh. He rubs his chin and then taps the counter with the knuckle of his pinky. “You know, I’m glad you’re here. You keep this place interesting.”

She gives a small smile and turns her back to him to slide a few rolls of fabric into their cubbies.

“You got a name?” he asks.

She pauses and looks over her shoulder, seeming genuinely surprised that he’s asking.

“Elouise,” she says. “Elouise Arnold.”

Jack nods, turning that name over in his head. He places it in the space between his tongue and the roof of his mouth but doesn’t let it leave his lips. It’s a name with conviction and certainty. Presence.

He likes it.

* * *

It’s a few phone conversations with Sousa and a whole lot of unexpected daydreams later when Jack Thompson returns to the tailor past noon on a Thursday wearing a perfectly-fitted gray suit and a matching fedora. He’s a man on a mission when he pushes the door open.

It’s lighter today.

She’s restocking inventory behind the counter, but she turns at the sound of the bell over the door jingling. She gives him a confused smile when she sees no suit in his hand.

He strides up to her and gives the most “Ol’ Jack Thompson Charm” kind of grin he can manage.

“Elouise,” he greets, removing his hat and placing it on the counter.

“Mr. Thompson,” she replies. Her lips are still upturned, but the wrinkle between her brows is growing more and more noticeable.

“Jack,” he insists. “Just Jack today. And for the foreseeable future, if you’d indulge me.”

And now Elouise is looking around, fidgeting a bit. She clears her throat. “What brings you to the shop today, Mr.—” She bites her lip and lowers her voice. “—Jack?”

“I’m taking your advice and going back to the start. I’m gonna go back to school, pick up a part-time job, and get my life in order.” He swallows but refuses to let himself look down. _What the hell—_ he used to be _good_ at this kind of thing. “And when I do,” he presses on, “I’d like to take you out. If you’ll let me.”

Elouise inhales sharply, her eyes wide. Now, she’s checking her surroundings in earnest, and Jack wants to kick himself because she’s looking for her boss, and he’s just now realizing this is maybe not the most appropriate time and place to do this.

But it’s definitely too late.

“I, uh—” he stammers. “I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t’ve done this while you were on the clock. I just—I thought it would be kinda, I don’t know, _sinister_ to wait outside for your shift to end, and I—” 

But she’s smiling now and biting back a laugh.

“No,” she agrees. “You probably should not have done this while I’m at work. But, I’ll tell you what, Mr. Jack Thompson.”

Jack’s heart does an odd little leap in his chest. His name sounds nice in her smooth, rich alto.

“You can make it up to me with dinner and a dance after you get that job and get back into school.”

And Jack Thompson cannot stop beaming when he responds, “Promise.”

* * *

It’s six weeks later when he follows through with that.

* * *

It’s still 1952 when Jack Thompson is forced to confront his privilege and her lack of it.

He hadn’t encountered much trouble when he took her on dates. A few funny looks, but she didn’t seem to mind, and Jack sure as hell didn’t mind—why shouldn’t they gawk at the pretty lady he’s lucky enough to have on his arm?

He feels better if he spins it like that because the truth is he can’t sock every idiot that turns their nose up at her, though he would have tried had she not already had to drag him away from a few fights.

But it’s not until their fourth time out that he realizes there’s more to courting a Black woman than just personally choosing not to care that she’s Black.

Because the world cares that she’s Black.

They’re headed down the street on their way back to her apartment after dinner when Jack spots Sawyer Christiansen in the flow of oncoming human traffic. He waves and Sawyer smiles and does the same, making his way over.

“Jack!” he greets cheerily. He shakes Jack’s hand with vigor. “Good to see you outside of the classroom.”

“Same to you, Sawyer.” He sticks his hand back in the pocket of his pants. “You’re looking pretty dapper, old boy. Headed out to the theater?”

He nods. “Yep, treating myself to a Broadway show this fine Saturday. You?”

“Heading home from dinner,” Jack replies. And then as an afterthought, “Oh! Sawyer, I want you to meet my girl Elouise.” He motions to her with a smile. “Elouise, this is Sawyer Christiansen. We’re in the same law cohort at Cornell.”

Sawyer laughs, clapping Jack on the shoulder. “And what a cohort we are. Hey, did you hear Justice Reed is coming by sometime next week?”

“Is he now?” Jack asks, impressed.

“Well, that’s the Cornell advantage for you,” Sawyer remarks proudly. “Guess we’re just a higher breed like that.” He adjusts his collar and tie. “Well, I’d best be on my way. Couldn’t stand to be late to the show. We’ve got to walk around _dignified,_ you know?” He makes an oddly determined face at Jack that Jack chalks up to a bit of anal vanity. “Enjoy the rest of your weekend, Thompson.”

When Jack loops his arm through Elouise’s again, she feels tense against him.

“You doing okay there?” he inquires.

She looks at him like she’s waiting for something, but apparently she doesn’t find it because she simply eyes the sidewalk ahead of her and says, “I’d like to get home soon.”

When they reach her apartment complex, she half-heartedly pecks his cheek and drops his hand rather unceremoniously, which is Jack’s cue to intervene.

“Alright, what’s the deal? Doesn’t take a former agent to know you’ve been upset the whole walk home.”

Elouise looks disenchanted when she answers, “Sweet of you to notice.”

“Elouise.” 

She rubs at the side of her nose and then relents, “ _I’m_ used to this, but I am a little disappointed you didn’t say anything to him.”

This statement startles him. 

“What?”

She studies him for a moment but then shakes her head. “Never mind, Jack. I’m rather tired. We can talk about it another time.”

She’s unlocking the gate in front of her building, but Jack knows whatever he’s done, it’s a bad idea to let it simmer overnight.

“Elouise,” he says, a little desperately. “Will you please come here and tell me what’s going on? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She sighs but turns around and descends one step so she’s eye level with him. “Your friend,” she says finally. “Sawyer.”

“Alright, yeah, what about him?”

“Jack.” The exasperation is clear in her voice. “He didn’t make eye contact with me once.”

And Jack Thompson is simply _dumbfounded._

Because he’s a pretty observant guy. So, there’s no way he would have missed if Sawyer had been avoiding eye contact with her.

 _No, surely Sawyer_ must _have—_

He replays the conversation, and no, Sawyer surely _didn’t_.

“He didn’t even acknowledge me when you introduced me,” she continues. “In fact, he changed the topic outright.”

_No, there’s no way—_

_Oh God, she’s right._

“Cornell men are a ‘higher breed?’ And ‘we’ve got to walk around dignified?’ Jack, did you really miss what that was referring to?”

 _Oh God, have_ I _done this before?_

An image of Jason Wilkes flashes through his mind, and Jack almost audibly groans.

“Look, Jack, it’s not your job to fight my battles,” she clarifies. “I don’t need you picking fights to protect my honor, or anything like that.” Her expression turns from one of hurt and exhaustion to one of sternness. “But you can’t call me your girl, then turn around and condone that kind of racism in the same breath.”

She walks back up the stairs and opens the gate. “You should head home, Jack. I’ll call you soon.”

He’s too stunned to try and stop her.

He lays awake that night, his chest tight, reviewing all the times in his life that he’s ever run into a Black person.

Had any of them walked away from a conversation with him—or a lack of conversation, apparently—and felt as demeaned and humiliated and dehumanized as Elouise had a few hours ago?

 _Christ, even before tonight, had_ Elouise _ever walked away from him feeling like that?_

He concludes the answer is unavoidably yes.

The grief of it almost has him sick to his stomach.

It’s about three in the morning when he makes a choice.

Knowing she’s an early riser, he shows up at her place in the wee hours of the morning, just past sunrise, and makes himself at home on the stoop in front of the wrought iron gate. He doesn’t have to wait long before he hears the sound of the door opening and turns to find her hurrying towards him in a robe and slippers.

“Oh my Lord, Jack—what are you doing here?” she exclaims in a whisper-shout through the bars. “It’s barely seven o’clock!”

“I was up all night, Elouise. Look, I feel awful about that idiot Sawyer, and I feel pretty awful about that idiot Jack Thompson, too.”

“Oh ju—Goodness, Jack—” She fumbles with the latch on the gate and pulls him by the hand inside its boundaries.

Her eyes are wide, and her hair isn’t laying flat, and Jack thinks she looks adorable, but he doesn’t have time to focus on it.

“I’m gonna be a civil rights attorney.”

She blinks. “What?”

“I have to do my part to make up for incidents like what happened last night. I have to protect you where I can.” He laces his fingers with hers. “I am so sorry for what happened. You don’t deserve to be treated like that. And you deserve someone who doesn’t have to be told his behavior was unacceptable.” He presses his molars together to steel himself. “I’m asking for another chance. I know I don’t deserve it, but I—”

“Jack,” she interrupts, grabbing his other hand and pulling him a little farther from the street and out of the line of sight from the windows. “I know last night was an accident. You didn’t know what you didn’t know. You know now, and I trust you’ll make different choices.” She lets go of one hand to cradle his cheek in her palm. “I’d be a hypocrite not to give you the chance to do better.”

“I swear to you I will.” He thinks her smile looks a little unconvinced, but he’ll take what he can get. “And I really am gonna do it. I’m gonna be a civil rights attorney. Change the system, starting with Cornell.”

And true to his word, when Jack Thompson sees Sawyer on Monday, he issues a smooth and thinly-veiled threat about what’s in store for him if he ever disrespects his girl again.

* * *

It’s midway through 1953—17 months after he first met her, 13 since the day he started courting her—when he realizes wants to have sex with her.

Rather badly.

He supposes the tension has been building for a while, but he’s just now reached the point where he’s ready to finally stop fighting the fact that he’s deeply enamored by her. He’d been running on air for a while. With this admission, he’s looked down at last.

And he finds himself plummeting into the canyon.

He’s helping her wash dishes after supper, days after his revelation. He’s just rinsed the last plate, and when she picks it up to dry it with that red striped dishtowel she likes so much, he puts his hands on her waist, tests the waters.

She smiles and leans back into his touch—a good sign.

He rests his chin in the hollow between her neck and shoulder. She shudders a little, straightens her spine. He turns his head to whisper against the skin of her neck, and she laughs breathlessly.

She puts the last dish away and turns, palms pressed against the countertop. His hands still on her hips, he gazes into her eyes and leans in to kiss her.

It’s soft but lingering. Her lips are a little chapped, and he’s got three-day-old stubble above his, but neither one cares. They separate for only a few seconds, noses still touching, her eyes still closed. Jack breathes her in and presses his mouth to hers again.

The separations between them grow progressively shorter, the kisses more heated. She rests her hands first on his shoulders before letting them travel up his neck and into his hair. He winds one hand around her back to pull her closer and cradles the back of her head with the other.

After a few minutes, he’s pulling her away from the counter and walking them towards the bedroom.

“Wait,” she says breathlessly when they’re halfway down the hall. “Wait, wait.” 

He pauses immediately.

“Are you alright?”

She puts a little space between them. “Yes. I will be. I just…I need to come to terms…” She shakes her head and looks down. “There’s a few things I need to get right with myself, and if we…if we start down this road…” She meets his eyes. “It feels harder to say no to a White man.”

And again, Jack Thompson is mortified to come face-to-face with a very real and tangible scale of power dynamics, in which he is holding a pile of bricks and Elouise is brandishing a feather.

He wonders how he could possibly have dated a Black woman for over a year and not automatically considered it. 

“Oh God, Elouise, I’m so sorry.” He backs up to give her more space, scrubbing his face with his hands.

_Idiot._

“It’s not you, Jack. It’s…Some signs of danger are just…just hard to unlearn.”

She closes the distance between them, already visibly calmer. She takes his hand, and he feels guilty for it. She’s comforting _him_ when she was worried he was going to—

“It’s not _you_ , Jack,” she repeats, her voice soft but firm.

Slowly, he nods.

They do make their way to the bedroom, but it’s in a much more innocent and unhurried way than before. She kisses him again, but it’s gentle, tender, no lust involved.

She changes into a nightgown, and he takes off his shirt and switches from his slacks to a pair of pajama pants she bought him for Christmas and leaves in her closet like a promise.

Jack lets her rest her head against his bare chest once they’re settled in bed. Her breaths are slower and steadier than his.

Because he is very, _very_ nervous.

And it’s not so much that he minds laying shirtless with her or the way her hair and cheek and breath feel above his heart. He doesn’t mind that part at all, truly.

But there’s a risk that comes with being shirtless that he was kind of hoping sex would distract from—

Because the lamplight is dim, but it’s still bright enough to cast shadows, shadows that play on the raised and uneven ridges of skin that mark the attempt on his life.

Jack hopes she won’t notice. It’s a foolhardy hope, but he clings to it nonetheless.

For a while, she doesn’t say anything, and he starts to believe that maybe she really isn’t going to notice. 

But then Elouise meets his eyes.

“May I?” she asks gently. She looks, to Jack, like she is fully expecting his refusal. He could say no, and she wouldn’t prod, wouldn’t push, wouldn’t give it a second thought.

And he certainly does hesitate for a moment. It feels a little too close to a lot of things: death, the SSR, Okinawa. And in that order, too.

But she’s going to unlearn.

For _him_.

He can unlearn for her.

He nods twice.

Her fingers leave his waist and come up to his chest. Initially, they circle the skin around the scar, and Jack’s breathing hitches just enough for her to notice. She instantly halts her movements.

“Jack, I’ll stop—”

“No,” he cuts in. “No, it’s just…new. Not bad.”

_Not yet, anyway._

Elouise touches the scar itself, tenderly traces the ragged outlines of the old bullet hole.

“Japan?” she ventures.

“Los Angeles. SSR.”

She lets her hand fall away as she nods and summarizes neatly, “War.”

* * *

It’s late in 1953 when they do, actually, have sex.

It’s at her request, but even so, he knows to take it slow—in the style of making love. He checks in at every junction, asks for permission before he takes off her shirt, her pants, her bra.

His mouth and hands explore her chest at her discretion. He works his way lower and makes sure she’s already satisfied once before attending to his own desires.

They laugh good-naturedly as she fumbles a bit trying to roll the rubber onto him, and, in the end, for safety’s sake, she lets him help.

He presses into her with all the restraint and control he can muster and rests against her as she adjusts. Belly to belly and chest to chest, they catch their breath together. He waits patiently, still except for the movement of his lips up and down her throat and face as he kisses her gently, lovingly. He is exceedingly careful not to move his hips until she requests it. Meanwhile, she gazes up at the ceiling in wonderment.

“Have you been with other women, Jack?” she asks softly, as if she’s a little afraid to break the spell of the quiet. “Slept with them, I mean.”

He nods, his nose brushing her neck, before he speaks. He can feel the heat of his breath bouncing back to him off her skin. “Two. At Cornell. The first time.”

“Did you love them?”

He sits up a little, supporting himself on his forearms so he can look at her. “I thought I did.”

She smiles up at him and plays with a piece of hair dangling over his forehead. “And now?”

“Now? Now I am quite certain you are the only woman I’ve ever truly loved.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls once you’re in them.”

And he laughs, and she laughs, and the sensation of moving together sends a shiver up Jack’s spine that cuts his laugh a little short.

So she pulls him down for a kiss and tells him to go ahead.

They make love several times that night, and by the end of it all, Jack Thompson knows that he has had his last first.

She falls asleep in his arms, her hand on his chest, one leg between his. He stays awake only a little longer than her to relish the feeling of her so securely and wholly with him.

Not _his._ She belongs to no one.

But _with_ him.

By choice.

By love.

And that’s far better.

It’s not enough hours later when he’s seized by a nightmare and shoots upright. He almost panics at the figure beside him. Almost thinks it’s a body and not a person. He half-expects to see dark splotches spreading across the faintly lit sheets.

But he blinks hard, rubs the sleep from his eyes, and it’s Elouise, and he watches her for a full minute to make sure that he didn’t strangle her in his sleep.

And thank God—she’s breathing.

And not dead.

She’s tucked in with the sheets drawn up to cover her chest. And the sheets are unstained, purely white—

_He’s in a clearing in Okinawa—_

_Dark—_

_Six bodies—_

_The flag is white—_

Jack throws the covers back, and gets out of bed, which is more than enough to rouse her. She shifts sleepily and frowns at the shadow moving in the room as it pulls on pants.

“Jack?”

He barely pauses in the doorway. “Just…go back to sleep.”

Jack is afforded approximately five minutes by himself—during which he pours himself three fingers of Scotch, downs them, pours three more, and practically collapses into a chair at the table—before he hears her feet padding softly across the kitchen’s linoleum.

She doesn’t speak. She wraps her robe tighter around herself and slips into her chair at the other end of the table to watch the horizon out the sliding glass door with him.

The pale periwinkle light that fills the sky tells them that it’s about six in the morning. Too late to go back to sleep, certainly. Not that either of them could now, anyway.

They are completely quiet and unmoving for twelve minutes.

Elouise gets up and pours herself a glass of water. At the counter, she finally speaks.

“You should talk about it.”

Jack doesn’t move a muscle.

“It doesn’t have to be with me,” she continues, “if you don’t want me to know. But you should talk to somebody about it. Daniel, maybe.”

She crosses the floor to stand at Jack’s side and gingerly lays a hand on his bare back between his shoulder blades. He tenses but makes no move to wave her away.

“Do you _want_ to tell me?” she asks.

A tendon in his jaw jumps as he grinds his teeth. His answering silence stretches for one minute. Two. Thr—

“When I was over there…” His voice is rough and gravelly, choked with the remnants of traitorous sleep and blasphemous tears. “They gave me a Navy Cross for shooting six Japanese soldiers that walked into our camp while I was supposed to be keeping watch—” he smiles wryly “—and for burying their white flag before any of our men could see it.”

If she reacts, Jack doesn’t see it. He’s still staring at the dark clouds. When the sun comes up, it will cast its red-orange glow for only a few moments before it meets the layer of stormy shade that rests just above the horizon.

He wants to leave it at what he’s said and never speak of it again, but a part of him is desperate to know if she’s ashamed of him.

“Is there any way to not feel the guilt of that?” he asks the window.

She had asked, when he first started courting her, why he was so willing to be seen in public with a Negro woman. Why he didn’t seem to walk with any less confidence or feel the need to explain himself to his colleagues or to only take her to places that were dark and shady and more secluded from prying eyes.

And he had told her half the truth—that she was too special to be ashamed of.

But what he hadn’t told her was that his shame quota was already full-up, every ounce of it already devoted to hating himself in his variety of quiet, hard-to-see ways.

She looks out at the buildings and streets below while she chews over her options. He knows what she’s going to say when, in his periphery, he sees her turn to stare at his profile long and hard.

Finally, she responds, and the expectation of the syllable doesn’t make it any easier to hear.

“No.”

Something inside Jack breaks and something else solidifies, closes off.

“No,” she continues. “You got that medal for the wrong reason, and nothing will ever be able to change that.”

Jack stares blankly out the window. Blinks twice. His finger absently scratches at the fabric of his pajama pants. His other hand traces the rim of his glass before he starts to lift the whiskey to his mouth.

She lays her hand on top of the drink before Jack can raise it halfway. With all the careful slowness of a handler approaching a wild animal, she moves between him and the window. Her achingly gradual descent to her knees accomplishes its goal and draws his reluctant gaze, and when he finally looks at her, her eyes are already locked on his. She swallows and takes an audible breath in through her mouth.

“But maybe you can keep it for the right ones.”

And Jack Thompson realizes that whatever he thought had hardened in his heart mere moments ago had actually been turning brittle. His walls are a sheet of single-pane glass trying to hold back Niagara Falls.

And she’s just taken a hammer to them.

He lets out a shuddering sigh as his hands start to shake. He tries to hold onto the whiskey glass harder but his palms are suddenly too sweaty to get a grip—

_Get a grip, get a grip, get a grip!_

But no inner monologue can stop the torrent that’s being unleashed.

He lets go of the glass and digs the heels of both hands into his eyes, unable to hold back his cries of anguish.

Elouise rests her hands on his knees as he hunches over and tries to curl into himself until he disappears.

Everything hurts, and he is convinced he will shake apart before the pain dulls.

When he told Peggy this story a lifetime ago in ’46, it felt like a fair trade. She had deserved to know who she’d risked her life for, who he was _really._

This?

This is different.

Entirely different.

Completely, wholly, and undeniably different.

This is raw emotion.

This is overwhelming guilt.

This is surrender, and it’s surrender to the woman he loves—

_And God, he is in love with her._

Even in the midst of all this, he knows.

He finds himself on his knees in front of her, face buried in her shoulder as the tears continue to run in uneven tracks and dribble off his chin. His hands are gripping at her shoulders harder than he’s ever held onto anything, and she will hide the bruises for the next week to save him the extra guilt.

She doesn’t try to shush him or assure him things will be okay. She doesn’t rock him like a child or try to sing him to silence.

Elouise Arnold threads one hand into his hair and just holds him, and Jack Thompson sobs on the floor in her arms until long after the sun rises.

* * *

It’s August of 1954 when Jack Thompson decides he simply cannot take it anymore.

He buys a ring with a deep blue sapphire in the center, thanks God that New York has no anti-miscegenation laws, and gets down on one knee in the kitchen after dinner, asking, “Elouise Althea Arnold, will you do me the great honor of marrying me?”

He expects her to gasp. Maybe to cover her face with her hands. Probably to cry. Hopefully to smile and say yes.

He does not expect her to roll her eyes.

“Honestly, the theatrics with you,” she scoffs.

He also does not expect her to push back her chair to get on her knees in front of him. Her fingers trace his jaw thoughtfully before skimming across his skin to cup the back of his neck. She holds their foreheads together.

“Ask me again.”

He blinks and frowns. “Uh—I—E-Elouise,” he starts, now entirely unsure of himself. He takes a deep breath and steadies himself again. “Elouise Arnold. Will you please marry me?”

She searches his eyes. “Ask me again.”

“I…I don’t really understand what’s going on right now. Is—Is this a test or a no?”

She places her hands gently on his shoulders. “No, it’s a yes. It’s just that most women only get this experience once in a lifetime. I’m trying to milk it.”

Jack Thompson throws his head back and laughs with an unbridled glee that he has not felt this deeply in his bones since before the War. She laughs with him, and Jack swears that no one in the world has ever felt like this. It takes him a full minute to come to his senses again, delirious with joy and freedom and the beautiful nonsense of his fiancée.

_His fiancée._

“Elouise. Marry me.”

“Yes, Jack Thompson. Yes.”

* * *

It’s November of 1954 when they hold their wedding in the backyard of an integrated bed and breakfast upstate.

The ceremony is fairly intimate. All of her family is there. Most of Jack’s immediate family manages to make it, too.

Gam-Gam is, of course, in the front row.

They invited a few friends—Daniel is his best man, after all—but in all honesty?

Every one of the seats could be empty, and Jack wouldn’t notice.

Because Jack Thompson is focused on only one person, and it’s Elouise Althea.

His fiancée.

 _Good God, that’s his_ wife.

The vows are a bit too slow for his liking—when can he put this ring on her finger, damn it?—but the second they’re over and she’s wearing the silver band, he wants to turn back the clock and do it again. He suddenly understands why he had to ask for her hand three times before he got a straight answer.

But at last, the reverend says he can kiss his bride, and Jack is cradling her face and looking at her like she caused the Big Bang before closing the distance between them to the sound of raucous applause.

Their lips fit together like clock cogs, lock and key, Jack and Elouise.

She breaks the kiss first, but she doesn’t move far.

Her smile is the most gorgeous thing Jack has ever seen.

“Well, hello there, Mrs. Thompson,” he whispers affectionately.

She laughs. “Hello, husband of mine.”

They take their first dance, cut the cake, and greet a blur of guests, never once letting go of the other.

Jack’s mother keeps bursting into tears every time she’s near them, embracing them both and repeating that she can’t wait to be a grandmother again. Gam-Gam pinches their cheeks and says she also wouldn’t mind being a great-grandmother one more time. Elouise’s parents are the picture of warmth and congeniality towards Jack’s family, and they take the liberty of teaching Jack’s rhythmless parents how to dance.

After the first few rounds of felicitations from her more distant relatives, Jack is zoning out, just staring at Elouise in wonderment—surely, he must have died on Tsuken Island because there’s no way this is his life—so he doesn’t see the next face that arrives to offer well wishes to the two of them.

But he knows the voice in an instant.

“Congratulations to the both of you,” a British accent rings out.

He looks up to see Peggy Carter, curly brown-black hair framing her face, deep violet dress hugging her frame, and he feels displaced in time.

“I must say, I was surprised to receive your invitation, Thompson,” she continues. “I didn’t think I’d qualify for the guest list.”

He shrugs, a bit of The Old Jack resurfacing involuntarily. “Well, what can I say? Guess I’ve got a sentimental streak in me yet, Carter.”

Her lips are painted a color like merlot, and she smirks briefly before giving a more genuine smile. She looks between Jack and Elouise. “I’m incredibly happy for you both.”

Jack gestures to Carter with one hand. “Elouise, this is—”

Elouise beats him to it.

“Director Carter, it is so nice to finally meet you.” She holds out a hand that Peggy takes. Jack can tell Carter’s pleased that his wife’s grip is firm.

“Jack’s told me a lot about you,” Elouise says. “None of the confidential things, of course,” she adds hastily. “He was very careful, don’t worry. But I am aware that you’ve saved the world more times than the rest of us will ever know.”

Peggy’s eyes flash momentarily with surprise, but she covers it up quickly—smiles her impeccable espionage smile, the one rich with grace and elegance and secrecy. “Well. It’s kind of him to say, but I certainly didn’t do it alone, much as I sometimes wished I could. He had quite a hand in a share of my adventures.”

Elouise wraps her other hand around Peggy’s and looks into her eyes with a sincerity that again has Peggy looking startled. “Thank you,” she says quietly.

And if Carter was trying to cast a veil over her bewilderment before, it’s wide open on her face now.

“I know what you do, from having kept _this one_ —” she nudges Jack with her hip “—safe, to risking your life in the shadows so we never even hear about the horrors that could have come to pass…” Elouise shakes her head. “It’s a thankless job. So, I just want to actually say thank you for the rest of us. The ones who aren’t out there, seeing what you see. Doing what you do. World War II may have ended in ’45, but I’ve got a sinking feeling you’re part of the reason there hasn’t been a World War III. And something else tells me that war’s never really ended for you. There’s a lot of fights that never end. So thank you, Director Carter. For everything.”

And for a moment, Jack thinks he may be seeing something that _maybe_ four people in the world have seen. Well, maybe more have seen it, but he doubts that many more than that have lived to tell the tale.

Peggy Carter looks to be on the verge of tears.

She turns away, blinking quickly. A breathless laugh escapes her. “I’m not supposed to be the one crying today.” She looks back at Elouise. “You know that, right?”

Elouise grins and moves a hand to Peggy’s arm. “I’m sorry, Director Carter.”

“Oh, please. Peggy.” She smiles again, and this time it’s her real smile. Jack has seen it in response to Daniel and Jarvis. He has a feeling this is the closest he’ll ever get to seeing it somewhat directed at him. “Anyone who can break through Jack Thompson’s walls,” she continues, “is a clearly skilled and iron-willed acquaintance I’m glad to make.”

Elouise laughs. “Anyone who could tolerate him with his walls up is a tough woman I’m glad to know, too, Peggy.”

Peggy finally looks over at Jack again. “Jack, I wonder if I might steal you away from your lovely bride for just a moment?”

Elouise kisses his cheek. “I give you full permission.”

Jack shrugs again. “So long as the lady doesn’t mind.” He smiles down at his wife and leans down to kiss her briefly. “Back in a minute, Darling.”

She slips her arm out from Jack’s and glides away toward a little crowd of aunts and uncles.

“I’m a lucky man,” he states aloud. It’s not really directed at Peggy in particular, but she agrees.

“I should say so.”

Jack claps his hands. “Alright, Carter. You wanna talk?” He jerks his head towards the balcony behind them. “Let’s talk.”

They walk into the house in silence, moving up the stairs in their quick, clipped military ways they’ve never quite managed to shake.

Once they’re in the open air, Peggy runs her hand along the balcony, stopping near the center. Jack follows a few steps behind and finally notices the gold wedding band on her finger.

He nods in the direction of the ring. “When did that happen? Got hitched and you didn’t even invite me?” He puts a hand over his heart. “I’m offended, Marge.”

Peggy rolls her eyes. “Oh, please, Thompson. We didn’t invite _anyone._ It was a quick, secretive affair, just him and me. You know I’m good at that sort of thing. So you’ve got absolutely no need to get your knickers in a twist.”

Jack chuckles at that. “Fair enough, Carter. So, what has you dying to get me alone?”

He’s more anxious than he wants to admit while he waits for her to speak. He doesn’t need Peggy Carter’s approval. _Don’t even want it,_ he lies to himself.

But even more than wanting her approval, he fears her disapproval.

She clearly doesn’t disapprove of Elouise herself. Even before he’d seen them interact, he’d known Carter would hit it off with her.

But there was a distinct chance that she would find _him_ unworthy still. Unworthy of Elouise, certainly.

But also unworthy of this—the second chance, the domesticity, the _happiness._

He had known months into his relationship with Elouise that he wanted to marry her if she’d have him, but it had taken him two years to believe that it was okay for _him—_ clothed in his dirty shame and sin and dishonor—to grab the opportunity life had granted him.

He knew with one conversation, if she really wanted to, Peggy Carter could destroy that acceptance and send him back to the wreck he was in 1952.

He sincerely hopes she doesn’t want to.

She looks out at the wedding party below for a moment, her eyes lingering on Elouise.

“You’re a new man, Jack,” she finally says, and Jack expects that she means his job and the mitigation of his old racial and misogynistic biases. But then she continues, “Elouise has worked some kind of magic in your heart. I’ve never seen you like this—you’re freer. Lighter.”

A seed of relief starts to take root in his heart. Maybe this won’t be his undoing.

He rests his forearms on the railing and watches his wife twirl two of her younger cousins. “You know, I told Sousa once that not everyone came back from the war wanting a hug. I certainly didn’t think I did. I didn’t…I didn’t want pity, you know?” He shrugs. “Thought I could just bust some bad guys, crack a couple skulls. Earn back what I thought I lost over there.”

Peggy remains silent, nodding almost to herself.

“But, she…” Jack smiles. “God, she just disarmed me from the start. Never made me feel weak, you know? Just kind of listened. Waited. Like—Like she _knew_ that eventually I was gonna get too tired to keep going. And when I did…Well.” He looks at Peggy. “Turns out, a hug was kinda nice.”

And he’s relieved to find there’s nothing cryptic or scrutinizing or demeaning in her eyes. Her expression and voice are soft when she speaks again.

“I’m glad, Jack. I think you’re both lucky to have one another.”

They chat for another few minutes now that Jack can breathe again—there’s a lot of catching up to do—but Peggy decides she won’t keep him any longer.

“We’ll write,” she assures him with a nod.

“Deal,” he says, grinning.

“You know if you ever change your mind, there’s always a place for you with S.H.I.E.L.D.,” she offers, her eyes roaming his face. “We can always use more good agents. And good men, Jack.”

He nods. “I appreciate it, Carter. But I’ve found my place.”

She lays a hand on his shoulder. “There’s lots of wars to fight and plenty of ways to fight them. Martyrs have their time and place, but I think it’s better to live to fight another day,” she says knowingly. And in this moment, Jack discovers he was wrong—

_So this is how it feels to have Peggy Carter really smile at you._

“I’m glad that you’ve found a war worth living for.”

* * *

In 1957, when Jack Thompson reaches the ripe old age of 37, he contributes enough genetic material to father his first child.

A son.

It’s nine months of trepidation—mostly on his part—and nine hours of labor—fully on her part. His one battle scar is how badly his hand aches with how hard she squeezed, but it is so, _so_ worth it when he hears that first cry.

He can’t help but cry, too, and Elouise joins him as the nurses put the little white-wrapped bundle in her arms.

The first portrait of the three of them is one filled with tears, but Jack can’t imagine it any other way.

Soon Elouise is handing the baby off to Jack so the nurses can finish up with the afterbirth and she can get some much-needed rest, but there is one problem with that.

Jack Thompson is _terrified_ to hold his son.

“You’re not going to drop him, Jack,” Elouise assures him. “Just trust yourself. You’re a father now. You’re not going to let anything happen to him.”

And that’s absolutely true.

This child has been in the world for all of ten minutes, and Jack is already certain he would do _anything_ to keep him safe.

So he takes his boy in his arms and tells him just that.

“You’re safe here. Always.”

It’s a few hours later, after Elouise and the baby have both slept, when they find themselves in need of a name. A bit of superstition from both sides of the family had kept them from brainstorming early.

They watch a tiny little boy in a clear cradle labeled “BABY THOMPSON” as he fidgets and yawns before falling back to sleep, and Jack thinks, _That is my son. My son, who is going to do great and wonderful things._

Jack will teach him to be kind, to offer a hand when everyone else would rather turn away. His boy will know what respect looks like, and he’ll know how to dig for the truth.

Jack will teach him to stand his ground, not to run from the things he fears, including himself.

And that thought leads him to blurt a name that he’s only half-serious about until Elouise cocks her head and nods slowly.

She watches their son for another moment then smiles at Jack. “A good name from a good man.” She wraps an arm around his waist. "You know, that name set you up for a pretty great future, and I bet it can do the same for him.”

“You’re sure, Elouise?” Jack asks, positively shocked.

“I think it fits about as well as anything else,” she replies. “But I get to choose his middle name.”

Ten minutes later, while Elouise is feeding the baby for the first time, Jack makes a call.

_“Hello?”_

“Daniel, it’s Jack.”

_“Hey, how’s it going?”_

Jack can’t stop smiling. “She had the baby, pal. I’m calling from the hospital.”

 _“Jack, that’s great! Mom and baby healthy and happy?”_ Daniel checks, although he sounds confident that the answer will be yes.

“God, they’re just beautiful, both of ‘em.”

_“Boy or girl?”_

“Boy.” The next words come out in the same breath as an incredulous laugh. “I’ve got a son, Daniel.”

Sousa laughs boisterously. _“Congratulations, man! Damn, I wish I was there. I couldn’t be happier for you. You deserve this. You and Elouise.”_

“Well, you’re about to get even happier, Sousa. Kid needs a godfather—think you’re up for the job?”

 _“Thompson…”_ Daniel goes silent for a few seconds. _“Thompson, you being serious right now?”_

Jack laughs. “Yeah, of course I’m being serious. Why would I yank your chain about that?”

 _“Jack, this—I—Me?”_ He takes a deep breath. _“Jack, I’d be honored.”_

“Welcome to godfatherhood,” Jack jokes, and they laugh in tandem.

_“So, what’s the little slugger’s name?”_

Jack smirks, honestly feeling a little giddy. “Daniel.”

 _“Yeah?”_ Sousa asks on the other end.

“His name is Daniel Elias Thompson.”

And Sousa is so silent that Jack worries for a moment that the call got disconnected before he could deliver his news.

But then he hears a quiet sniff, and he knows his message got through.

 _“His name is Daniel?”_ he confirms in a tight voice.

“Daniel Elias Thompson,” Jack repeats, and his eyes are watering again, too.

Because he has a _son._

Jack Thompson and Daniel Sousa cry together shamelessly over the phone.

* * *

In 1961, she blesses him with another a child, a daughter this time, and if Jack Thompson cried when his son was born, he openly weeps when he holds his daughter. Over and over, he repeats to himself, “My little _girl. My_ little girl,” and thanks his wife repeatedly when he finally catches his breath.

She is sweaty and sore and exhausted and fresh out of humor, but she smiles anyway and replies, “You’re welcome.”

Daniel is enamored with his baby sister and how small all of her toes and fingers and features are.

They name her Thea, playing on her mother’s middle name, and give the baby the middle name Annabelle after Gam-Gam.

Jack will never tell his wife, but he thinks Thea Annabelle Thompson may have just beat out Elouise Althea Arnold for the most beautiful string of syllables he’s ever heard.

* * *

It’s January of 1964 when Elouise decides she wants to march, and Jack all but begs her not to go.

“There’s no point to you going out there and risking life and limb like that. We’ve got _kids_ to raise,” he reasons. Loudly.

“Jack Thompson, I have to go _because_ we have kids to raise,” she replies. “ _Black_ kids.” And her voice is so even, so matter-of-fact, so soft but enunciated, that the fight drains out of him right then and there. _“_ I’m not sending them into a world that’s not safe for them."

* * *

It’s April of 1964 when Jack Thompson looks up from his desk to see his neighbor holding his children by the hands, and he enters a blind panic.

“She was supposed to come pick them up at 3:00,” Mrs. Robinson says helplessly, as though Jack hasn’t yet realized—hadn’t _instantly_ realized—what the problem was.

He’s scrambling out from behind his desk, leaning down to take Daniel in one arm and lifting Thea in the other. Daniel buries his face in Jack’s chest and Thea is clinging to his neck, and for a moment, he lets himself focus only on their scents and the feeling of their bodies safe in his grip.

This is control, at least a modicum of it, and Jack Thompson will take what he can get.

Thea is crying and scared because everyone else is scared, but Daniel—Daniel _understands_.

“Is Mama gonna be okay?” he asks quietly, his young voice shaking.

And all Jack can assure him is, “We’ll find her, Danny. We’ll find her.”

And then he has to let the kids go because Mrs. Robinson is taking them back down into the lobby of the building to wait for news.

He’s still on his knees when he manages to call after them, “It’s gonna be okay.”

The air in the office is tense for the space of a few breaths. Andrew Yavins breaks the silence first.

“Jack…I’m so sorry.” He looks helplessly at his colleagues. “What can we do?”

Jack takes a breath, scrubs a hand over his face, and then he’s The Old Jack Thompson again, fully—Agent Jack Thompson, able to switch off his emotions at the drop of a hat. He is objective, mission-driven, mission-focused.

“Yavins, switch on the TV. Burns, I want you scanning the radio, too. I need eyes and ears on any news about today’s march. If something’s gone down, this is as much about gearing up for prosecution as it is about my wife.”

It’s like the SSR all over again—he’s giving orders to every man in his office. They’re all lawyers, not agents or officers and no longer soldiers, but they’re capable of listening to broadcasts and making phone calls. They piece together that counter-protestors tried to break up the march, and within minutes, Jack’s got his boys on the line with every police station and hospital in the area.

Everything around him is a blur. He can only hear what’s directed solely at him, like the voice on the other end of the telephone—the one that’s giving him no helpful information.

It’s sixteen minutes after Jack’s world started to crumble when Johnson looks up with wide eyes.

“Jack.”

Johnson motions him over frantically, and Jack crosses the room with impossibly quick strides.

He still _looks_ like he’s all business, but anxiety is clawing at his throat. He grabs the phone from Johnson’s hand.

“Hello?” His voice is gruff, almost accusatory, threat-laden, daring bad news to try him.

The voice on the other end, by contrast is sweet and feminine when it verifies that someone called to ask about an Elouise Thompson.

“Yes. Yes, that’s my wife. You have her?”

And the woman tells him that yes, she was admitted a few hours ago, and at some point, she says the word surgery, and he loses track of everything.

And now there’s no more bravado or focus or dispassionate execution of ordered steps. “Agent Jack Thompson” falls away as suddenly and completely as it had when he was shot in ’47.

Now there’s just Jack, feeling very small indeed as he tries to fathom his strong, vibrant, overflowing-with-life, indestructible wife unconscious in an operating room, and—

O _h God, she is going to die—_

He doesn’t realize Johnson’s taken the phone back from him or that there’s two guys on either side of him helping him into a chair until he’s already seated.

“Jack. _Jack._ ” Yavins is in front of him with a hand on his arm. “Is…Is she okay?”

He looks around. His colleagues, his _friends,_ have encircled him in the time that it took for him to return to reality, and they’re watching him with faces nowhere near as terrified as he feels.

He meets Yavins’ eyes again and shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know.”

Jack musters the strength to stand and put his jacket on, grab his keys.

“Jack, I don’t think you’re in much condition to be driving right now. I’ll take you, and Haverly will follow in your car.”

He nods and hands the keys off blindly.

He descends the stairs with Johnson and Haverly in a haze that abruptly ends the moment he sees his kids on a bench in the lobby with Mrs. Robinson.

Daniel pops to his feet almost instantly, running to his dad as soon as Jack hits the bottom of the stairs. Jack holds him as tight as he can, eyes already squeezed shut by the time Thea’s tiny form catches up and slams into his side.

After a minute passes, he pulls away to cradle each of their faces in a palm.

“I found your mom,” he says with as reassuring a smile as he can muster. “She’s in the hospital, but I’m gonna go keep her company.”

“Dad, let us come,” Daniel objects tearfully.

Jack shakes his head. “Not yet, Danny. She’s still feeling a little under the weather right now, so I’m gonna go by myself. But I know the _moment_ she’s better, she’s gonna want to see you two.”

Thea sniffles, and Jack gingerly wipes a tear off her cheek with his thumb.

Mrs. Robinson speaks up from her polite distance, “I’ll watch the dears and make us all dinner when we get back.”

“Thank you, Virginia,” he says with a tense but grateful half-smile. He redirects his attention to his children. “I need the two of you to keep being good for Mrs. Robinson for now, alright? It’ll help Mama feel better if she knows her babies are on their best behavior.”

Thea nods, setting her small braids bobbing. Daniel studies Jack for a moment, and Jack recognizes the appraising look as so wholly Elouise that he can’t catch his breath for a moment.

_What if this is all that’s left of her?_

But then Daniel nods, too, and Jack draws them both back in one last time, kissing the tops of their heads. He looks up at Mrs. Robinson again.

“I’ll call before bedtime.”

“Do whatever you need to do. I’ll take care of them,” she assures him. “You take care of her.”

And then he’s in the passenger seat of Johnson’s car trying not to cry or throw up, and he’s wondering when he got so soft.

But, of course, that’s a question he already knows the answer to.

And he fears the stoniness that will return if he loses Elouise.

She’s out of surgery by the time they get there. Jack tells Johnson and Haverly to go home to their own wives and appreciate every second with them. They look skeptical but oblige, gripping his shoulders and telling him the news is already looking up before they go.

A nurse leads him back to the doorway of Elouise’s room and leaves him for a moment to find the doctor. Jack wants to look everywhere but the bed, but it seems he doesn’t have much say in the matter.

His stomach starts to churning in earnest.

He holds himself together long enough to hear what her surgeon has to say, but the moment the doctor and nurse have cleared out, Jack Thompson is sprinting for the bathroom and promptly vomiting into the toilet.

He feels pathetic. Just seconds ago, they had assured him that she was going to be fine. She had taken a beating, yes—a few broken fingers and ribs, the shattered hip that had called for surgery—but none of it was critical, none of it was lethal, none of it would shorten her life.

He should be _relieved._ His wife is _alive,_ and given time, she will be _fine._

But he can’t hold back the tears.

The only thing that picks him up off the floor is the thought that he’s got to be there when she wakes up in a few hours, and he’s got no concept of how long he’s already been holed up in this stall.

He washes his hands, rinses his mouth, splashes water on his face and slicks back his hair because he just cannot look a mess when Elouise sees him.

Before he can bring himself to walk back into her room, he allows himself one more moment of self-indulgent pity.

There’s a phone in the hallway, and, per his usual coping mechanism, he pays to dial a California number.

The line rings for only a few seconds before there’s a familiar baritone on the other end.

_“Hello?”_

“Daniel, i-it’s Jack.”

_“Jack? What’s the matter? You sound upset.”_

“Yeah, well, I—Elouise, she, uh…”

_“Jack, what’s going on? You’re scaring me, pal.”_

Jack exhales shakily. “She got hurt. Bunch of KKK bastards tried to break up a march, and she…They got her good, Daniel.”

 _“Oh God, Jack. I’m so sorry, I—”_ Sousa sighs in frustration in Los Angeles. _“Is there anything I can do? Is she…?”_

He shakes his head like Daniel can see it. “No, and she—she’s gonna be fine. But I’m just…Hell, I’m just rattled, you know?”

_“Of course. The fear, the violence, the—God, the threat of death. Feels like war again, I’m sure, but without the right tools to fight it.”_

And there it is.

Some part of him had known that Daniel would be able to figure out exactly what Jack didn’t have the words to say. He feels seven times lighter just hearing it out loud.

“ _Do you want to talk about it?”_ Daniel asks. _“And are the kids okay?”_

“The kids are shaken up, too, but they’re alright. And I think I just needed someone to…to _get_ it,” Jack admits, finally starting to feel steady on his feet.

_“Well, you know if you need anything at all, I’m a call away. I’ll be in the house all night in case you wanna ring me again, alright?”_

“Thanks, Sousa.”

_“Any time. I’m here for you, Jack.”_

“I know.”

And he truly does.

Jack hangs up and finally goes back to Elouise’s room. He doesn’t touch her or adjust her blankets, worried he might jostle a broken finger or a fractured rib and the pain will startle her awake, so he settles instead for telling her about his day.

He talks about an integrated baseball team Andrew’s son plays on that they should look into for Daniel and a dance at the VA in a few weeks he’d like to take her to. He tells her about a new court stenographer he met at the beginning of the current case he’s on that reminds him of Peggy—which reminds him that Peggy sent a letter to the office a few weeks ago to update him on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s progress. Near the bottom of the letter, she had reminded Jack that she was _“still upset that Chief Sousa had the honor of being a child’s namesake while I have been merely relegated to the status of Wine Aunt Peggy.”_

“What do you say, Darling?” Jack asks aloud with a weak and breathy but genuine laugh. "Margaret Thompson for the next one?”

He passes the hour with one-sided conversation but loses the breath needed for speech when she stirs, shifting gently with her brow furrowed. After another few minutes of rustling covers and sighs of discomfort, she blinks out from under the anesthesia.

When she is awake and staring at him, he wants _so badly_ to say, _“I told you so.”_ He wants to berate her and ask her if this has worked out the way she planned. He wants to ask her if she thinks the kids are proud that this is where she’s gotten herself, if she thinks they’re _grateful_ that she’s laid up in this hospital bed, swollen and bruised and half-dead.

He wants to move to Canada and lock her in the house and never turn on a TV or a radio so she never gets tempted to try this again.

He wants to say, _“Thank God, you’re alive. I thought I was going to lose you. I’ve been worried sick. I can’t live my life without you—”_

But Jack Thompson’s mouth and body do none of these things.

Instead, he smiles brokenly at her, finally holds one of her hands in both of his, and lifts it to his mouth, crying softly and silently praising the Lord the way she taught him.

* * *

In 1976, the Department of Justice receives a package with no return address.

They think it’s a bomb at first, and employ security protocols accordingly until they can verify it poses no danger.

When they open it, there’s another box inside—one that looks to have held fine jewelry.

And tucked into the velvet lining of that box is a pristine Navy Cross and a single dog tag stamped with a name:

_THOMPSON, JONATHAN._

No one quite knows what to do with them.

* * *

It’s 1982 when Thea answers the door to see Danny standing there and fetches Jack and Elouise at his request.

He’s wringing his hands when Jack rounds the corner, Elouise just behind him.

“Danny, I didn’t know you were coming home today,” Jack says with a smile. He starts to step outside to hug him, but Daniel takes a step back.

“I’m gay,” he blurts unceremoniously.

Thea is frozen.

Elouise inhales deeply and holds her breath.

Jack’s jaw hangs open just enough for him to taste the lingering heat of September on his tongue.

He can see the headlines in his mind—that new disease that gay men seemed to be catching left and right.

Catching and _dying from._

Jack can do his best to protect him from unfair laws, discrimination, persecution.

But he can’t protect him from _that_.

And if his son dies a young man…

He’ll never recover from that failure.

Elouise is the first to break the silence—and Jack’s spiraling thoughts—with a quiet sigh. Jack looks over at her, trying to read her expression.

She looks tired.

 _Battle-worn,_ he realizes.

She holds her arms out to Daniel. Their son hesitates for a moment before plowing into them, his breath rushing out as a sob. Elouise strokes his hair softly. Thea joins her, her arms wrapped around them both.

“That’s alright, baby. We’ll figure it out,” Elouise soothes. She finally meets Jack’s eyes, and he knows she’s suiting up for the front lines yet again. “It is what it is.”

Jack takes one inching, hesitant step closer, his hands shaking and uncertain. Finally, one finds the small of Daniel’s back, and the tears from the both of them spill over. Daniel’s relief is trembling and loud and ugly, and Jack tightens his grip, kissing the top of his boy’s head.

“We’ll figure it out,” Jack echoes. “You’re safe here. _You’ll always be safe here.”_

* * *

It’s July 23, 2004, and Jack Thompson wakes up next to his wife the same way he has every morning for the last forty-nine years.

She’s on the right side of the bed with her silk wrap because, soldier that he’s always been, he never could figure out how to sleep comfortably in soft, yielding silk sheets.

He shifts, and she stirs, stretching her legs before turning to face him.

“Morning, Doll,” he says in his gravelly morning drawl.

She brings a wrinkled, vaguely arthritic hand to his cheek and pats affectionately. “Morning, Old Man.”

They take their time getting out of bed.

Not many places to be nowadays.

Not on a Friday, anyway.

If it was a Wednesday, she’d be at the elementary school helping her kids with their reading lists, and if it was a Thursday, they’d be at the VA helping cook the weekly dinner and then shuffling across the dance floor to Peter Sivo and Nat King Cole.

She slips into a yellow sundress— _and don’t she look radiant in yellow—_ and he pulls on a pair of long khaki pants and buttons a white shirt.

She scrambles some eggs while he dusts the front room. He pays special attention to the pictures on the mantle: the four of them at both the kids’ graduations, Danny and his long-time partner Joshua, Thea with her husband and son and stepdaughters, the Sousas at a Christmas family reunion. He peers at Sousa’s grandson grinning in his NYPD uniform, and Jack swears Daniel time-traveled because that kid is the spitting image of the agent he worked alongside a lifetime ago.

The thought of time-travel brings a smile to his face, and he dusts the one picture Peggy had risked sending of her and Steve a few decades back, gray streaked through her curls and his coif.

“Jack, honey, are you ready to eat?” Elouise calls from the kitchen.

“Sure am, Sweetheart.”

It amazes Jack as they eat that, even now, they’ve never run out of things to talk about. When they’d been young, they’d talked about new things. They still discuss politicians new and old and keep up with current events, but now they tend to spend more time reflecting and digging up “Best Of” memories.

They both watch Law & Order on the weekends, and some days, like today, they discuss similarities between episodes and old cases Jack worked on.

“No, you’re thinking of the Hooper case,” he says, taking a sip of his orange juice. “Muskoll was the discrimination one against the private high school.”

Elouise thinks for a minute before making a noise of affirmation. “That’s right, that’s right. What was the Affirmative Action suit Julius and Andrew worked on in ’75?”

He puts his fork down and frowns.

It hits them at the same time.

“Madeira,” they say together, laugh together.

She crochets in the sun room while he reads in the armchair beside her. He dozes off at some point and wakes up to her shaking his arm and telling him it’s time for their daily walk.

The walks are much more pleasant in the summer for the both of them. His chest and her hip tend to ache in the cold of winter, the healed-but-permanent cracks in the bones always alerting them to the change of the seasons.

But summer is easy breathing, and he takes advantage of that. He sings Tony Bennett to her as they stroll, and she’s still got harmony in her voice when she croons every word of “Body And Soul” and “Who Can I Turn To?” in between steps with her cane.

A few hours after the promenade, since she made breakfast, he makes an early dinner, and then they sit down in front of the TV to watch the news and her VHS copies of _Good Times_.

“Thea used to make us do her hair just like that when she was younger,” Jack remarks of Penny’s braided bun.

“You mean she made _me_ do her hair like that,” Elouise corrects. “You broke out in hives any time she asked you to touch her head.”

Jack laughs. “Because any time I thought I had successfully executed what I saw you do, she looked in the mirror and was horrified.”

When they’ve had their fill of the Idiot Box, as Jack refuses to stop calling it, he showers while Elouise takes a call from a friend in her book club. She showers after and meets him in bed.

It’s a peaceful existence they’ve built at last.

“I am hopelessly in love with you, Elouise Thompson.”

He kisses her sweetly as they lay there, and she chuckles at his tenderness.

“I love you, Jack Thompson.”

She turns onto her side, and it doesn’t take long for her to drift off.

Belly a bit fuller, hair a lot grayer, mind a lot wiser, heart a lot richer, guilt never gone but maybe a little more balanced, Jack Thompson curls closer to his wife. Her shoulders rise and fall gently in the rhythm of sleep, and he wraps an arm around her waist.

He breathes in her scent, nearly unchanged after all these years, and he smiles, content.

Unafraid.

It’s July 23, 2004.

Jack Thompson closes his eyes, falls asleep and never wakes again.

**Author's Note:**

> So there it is―my approximation of Jack’s relationship with a Black woman that I believe would fundamentally change him. Liked it? Didn’t? Found it wildly offensive? Let me know.
> 
> I hope you’ll forgive me for not having much of the snarky, wiseass Thompson we’ve come to love to hate and hate to love. I felt like after everything he’d faced by ’52, he’d just be a little different. Who knows, maybe I’ll go back and write ’47-51 for him and give him a little more of that trademark sass.
> 
> I also hope you’ll forgive me for playing a little fast and loose with the timeline of the founding of S.H.I.E.L.D. References to comic books place its founding in 1965 but the MCU Fandom Wikia simply says “formed shortly after World War II.” I feel like the MCU Peggy we’ve all come to know and love and adore might have started the transition in the early fifties, not too long after that assassin almost killed Jack, since that was probably a defining moment when she realized the SSR wasn’t cutting the mustard.
> 
> I did a fair amount of extracurricular reading, if you will, on this, so here are all the sources I remembered to cite (because yes, I’m certain there are ones I forgot to grab links for):
> 
> https://marvelcinematicuniverse.fandom.com/wiki/S.H.I.E.L.D.
> 
> https://aaregistry.org/story/jumping-the-broom-a-short-history/
> 
> https://www.redbookmag.com/body/pregnancy-fertility/g3551/what-it-was-like-giving-birth-in-every-decade/
> 
> https://www.takingcharge.csh.umn.edu/explore-healing-practices/holistic-pregnancy-childbirth/how-has-childbirth-changed-century#
> 
> https://www.healthline.com/health/dementia/stages#stages
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Timeline_of_HIV/AIDS
> 
> https://www.tonybennett.com/timeline.php
> 
> https://www.nps.gov/brvb/learn/historyculture/justices.htm
> 
> https://study.com/articles/Become_a_Civil_Rights_Attorney_Education_and_Career_Roadmap.html
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anti-miscegenation_laws_in_the_United_States
> 
> Anyhow, thank you so much for giving this a little read-through. I'm glad that I can finally put Jack Thompson to rest; it took a lot out of me to write this, but I feel like it was worth it. Happy reading, y'all, and I'll see you around the Archive!


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